What's Left
by tamiiland
Summary: Hi. My name's Sam. The Autobots left, Sentinel won, humankind got reduced to slaves and… Well, you get the gist of it, don't you?


**Warnings:** Humans – aliens – character death – mild insanity – violence – cussing

**Author's Note:** I felt like experimenting with narrative modes… hence this little spawn's creation. Some silly angst to blow off the pessimistic steam that has been tormenting me lately.

**Special feature: **_My name is Sam Witwicky._ by dA artist miyakiv (fav. me/d26145a)

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><p><strong>What's Left<br>**

I stare up at Cybertron.

Not at the sky, but at Cybertron.

The sky no longer exists here on Earth. All we get to see now when we look up are shades of grey, copper and silver. Cybertron's centre is hollow, apparently, because we're now trapped inside it, working as its new power supply. We live in constant shadows, thick and long and looming; a perpetual reminder of our lost freedom. Vegetation (and life altogether) hasn't croaked yet because the Decepticons radiate Earth with invisible UV rays on a daily basis. Ironically enough, they've become our sun.

Most of my kind regards the alien world with caution and hate. They're wasting their time and energy doing it, in my opinion; glaring daggers at a planet won't make it go away. If it did, I'm pretty sure that Cybertron would have turned into intergalactic dust a long while ago.

But no. The planet's here to stay.

It's been some time since the Autobots were banned from Earth. Around seven years and almost six months, I'd say. Four thousand and forty-four days, to be precise. Not that I've been counting—not intentionally, anyway. My mind simply does stuff without me telling it to, every now and then. Probably the first signs of a decaying saneness, which is completely fine by me. There wouldn't really be that much of a difference between a sane Sam and an insane Sam. I mean, I've been crazy before and people barely noticed.

Anyway, as I was saying, it's been some time since Optimus and his peers left us to rot in this so-totally-forsaken-by-God ball of dirt. I can't really blame the big guys, though; no matter how much I try to convince myself that it's their fault for having ejected the stupid AllSpark from Cybertron in the first place. Kinda reckless of them to launch a massive all-powerful cube into space, if you ask me. Still, I never found the strength to blame them for making my ancestor lose it, or decimating my normal life to ashes, or bringing their war to Earth, and probably never will. I don't know why, but human mind is funny like that.

They didn't exactly pack up, flip our dim-witted leaders—if you can call them that—off and fly away with their spaceship, either. Optimus tried to make the governments see the foolishness their decisions implied, though his pleas were disregarded. Bumblebee cupped me in his hands and cried. Ironhide considered overthrowing all human countries for our own good. Ratchet simply subspaced his tools with a sigh—a sigh full of disappointment and disillusionment towards my kind. The rest of the Autobots simply followed their Prime's order to gather their things.

On August 23rd, they left. I remember it perfectly because I had first row seats to watch the shuttle get lost in the clouds. Panic and abandonment jarred at my heart so badly that I think it never recovered. Some humans wanted me to leave with them; the weird part is that I was willing to go. With their departure, I knew what was to come. Maybe my willingness wasn't so weird, after all. But, of course, the big guys would have none of it, going on about how I needed to stay with my kind because this was our fight now and other sentimental crap.

It was hard for them to get away unscratched. They had to pull some pretty crazy stunts to evade Starscream's surprise-attack. I don't think it's easy to manoeuvre a rocket like that, not even if you're alien robots and the ones who built the thing.

After that little mishap, they were gone.

I glance at you over my shoulder. I then turn and start making my way to you through corpses and debris, swatting away floating pebbles. Earth's gravity is now kind of messed up because of Cybertron's own gravitational pull.

"Salut," I say, waving my hand. You don't even blink, but I persist, "Comment t'appelles-tu?"

It's painfully obvious that you're ignoring me, now. Or maybe my French sucks so badly that you can barely understand what I'm babbling. I sit on the ground a few metres away, careful as to not get too close to you. Aphephobia sort of became a common mental disorder after the Decepticons took over the world, so I always make sure to give people their space, and then some more.

"Hi," I try again, this time using my own language. "What's your name?"

Not really expecting you to answer (you have the rigid posture of a catatonia sufferer), I look around and entertain myself imagining how this place used to be before Sentinel took over. Seeing how it's wide and flat, I suppose it would've been a park. A nice one. Now it's a display of intestines and burnt skin. There are some charred trees around the place. A few twisted, melted metal structures stand together a distance away from us, and I sadly recognise them as part of a playground. Decepticons are getting cruder in their 'disciplining' methods. Before, they burnt everything down to the last atom until there was no corpse, no remains left to retrieve.

Letting out a sigh, I lit up my cigar, cupping the lighter with one hand and igniting it with the other. There's no wind, but it's a tic I have. Decepticons have sharp optics, and finding the little flame is a child's game for them. I doubt those monsters are nearby since they never stick around their own mess due to finding the smell of rotting flesh disgusting, but I prefer erring on the side of caution. I'm not alive because of plain luck; my almost paranoid wariness has been more than useful these past years.

I turn my gaze to you and smile sheepishly. "Hope you don't mind a bit of smoke."

You betray nothing, but I make sure to face away from you when I exhale. "Anyway, yeah." I chuckle wryly. "Hi."

I sweep my gaze over you, and notice you're battered and wounded. A gun rests at your side, and I immediately know it isn't loaded. Humans don't let go of their weapons unless they're no longer useful. I nod towards it and ask, "No rounds left, huh?"

Again, you keep your eyes fixed on the bloodshed in front of us, pretending I'm not here. You look like a civilian, and in the verge of crying. Distracting you would be the best course of action right now, so I start thinking a subject to babble about. Puffing out some smoke, I put out my cigarette, pressing it against the floor.

"So," I start, shuffling open my first aid kit. Fishing out a few swabs, I inch closer. "Parlez-vous anglais? I hope you do, 'cause I'm not talking in French anymore. I suck at it."

For a second, I stare at my equipment and then at your wounds.

I look at you expectantly. "I'm—I'm gonna… I mean, you have some nasty cuts."

Deliberately, I interpret you silence as permission. I close the distance between us with one last wiggly jerk and start cleaning the nearest gash. For some time (not really definite and undeniably peaceful) I work in pleasant silence. Months have passed since I last had the commodity of calmness, and it's not the first time I find it in the middle of an aftermath. I like to think it's because the place is full of angels who came to lead the flock of souls away, and not because a part of me is glad that I'm not dead like most of the unfortunate suckers surrounding me.

Before I know it, I start talking.

"I bought Bee about twelve years ago. When he turned out to be this super advanced alien robot, things got real scary, I remember. I ran away from him because, damn, Camaros aren't supposed to transform. I stopped running soon enough, after he beat the crap out of Barricade, and Optimus and the rest of the crew landed. And then I knew they were the good guys. I knew it like you know the sun rises and sets—or at least used to. Anyway, they chose some shady alley as the location to tell me that Earth's fate was sorta in my hands. Pretty freaky, but back then it felt awesome-freaky."

Leaning back, I inspect my work with a satisfied smile. Ratchet would've been proud, I boast inwardly. Patting your arm softly, I murmur a few complimenting words on how well you're doing. It makes me a little sad when you don't answer me but I understand. After such carnage, I'd probably be quiet, too.

"When I found out the government was keeping an alien relic inside a dam, I thought, 'Well, shit, man. Real life's crazier than the movies.'"

I snort a laugh at how ridiculous reality can be, and toss the used swag to a side to grab another one, quickly starting to clean the second-to-nearest gash with meticulous strokes. Glancing up, I notice the humour of my comment is lost to you. Catatonia does that to people. I sigh, missing the days in which mental instabilities weren't so normal. Thinking of them as commonplace chills me to the bones.

My hands stop moving, and my eyes turn distant. "I wasn't wrong, was I?"

No, I wasn't. I don't need anyone telling me that to know that I was perfectly right. The wind starts to pick up, and I push my swags inside the first aid kit before they get blown away. 'Wind' is how we refer to waves of gravity wafting things in a particular direction. It's oddly warm, and comes and goes as breezily as Earth's wind used to.

Running a hand through my hair, I notice it's too long. After some fumbling with my many pockets, I find my pocketknife and start cutting stray locks, swatting them away for the wind to take. I'm not a haircutter, so I'm well aware of the mess I'm making, but it'll will be more practical and less bothersome when I'm done.

"Don't you dare laugh," I mumble, trying to calculate how short I should cut the next tuft. After some pondering, I give up and get rid of most of it. The wind carries away my DNA samples. I wonder if a Decepticon would be able to clone me, in case he found one of my hairs and cared enough to pick it up. An army of Sams… Most annoying army ever, I'm sure.

Evading your strayed gaze, I tap the pocketknife affectionately. "Property of Major Lennox."

For a second, I wonder if you've heard of him, and then huff a laugh. Of course you have! The man and his heroic deeds are a legend, a flash of hope in our dying world. He worked side-by-side with the Autobots when he barely knew them, forged a friendship with them, fought alongside them, stood solemnly as they left, rebelled against Sentinel when no one else did, raised an army out of nought, and killed more Decepticons than any other man. Almost every human looks up to him and thinks, 'Hey, I can be a fearless fighter, too.' Major William Lennox is a hero, a Superman with uniform and a crew cut.

I don't feel the need to tell you he's dead; I fail to see how knowing that he got a blast in the middle of the chest seventy-five days ago will make you feel any better. My pursed lips and rueful eyes should be clue enough, I tell myself. You just have to pick up the hints.

Since Lennox was our hope incarnated, and I mean this in the most painfully literal sense, I had to do something to keep humanity's fragile faith from crumbling down at the news of our champion's death. When no suitable, morally-correct solution came to mind, Glenn and I decided to create a new Lennox: I became him. Sarah gave me his uniform the day after we buried his remains in secret, like he was something to be ashamed of. The price to pay for a little confidence from humankind. Now I wear his clothes proudly, bravely, inspiring others to keep going. There is no man that can replace Lennox but those who don't know the secret are fooled by my act, and the ones who are aware respect me as much as they did him. Silly, considering how I'm nothing but a civilian who got tangled up in the mess of the millennium, yet I appreciate their vote of confidence all the same.

Epps is dead, too. Not in a dead-dead fashion, but he's been in vegetative state since Chicago. The doctors hold no hope for him and I don't, either. But there's an unspoken promise between all of us. No one will disconnect him. We'd rather see him waste away than end his misery. The human race can be so egoistic.

Que got killed when Sentinel turned against us. Ratchet and he had been protecting him from the Decepticons when BAM, cosmic rust cannon blast to the head. Those are the times when you realise that life's a bitch, has puppies, and bites ankles.

Carly, Keller, Maggie, Dad, Mom, Simmons, Mearing, Annabelle, Eddie… they're all dead-dead. Mikaela was somewhere in Paraguay, last time I heard of her. Glenn and Miles were in our underground base in the States when I left. I haven't contacted them in fifty-nine days, so they could be as good as dead. I doubt you've heard of any of them, anyway, so I don't tell you anything. Surely, you have your own lost ones to mourn and miss and weep over.

"Oh, did you hear the news?" I say happily, resuming my task. "We killed Gould. Yep! The bastard's gone for good. I don't mean to brag but… cleanest headshot of my career."

When I shot him, I found it morbidly pleasing to see his blood splattered, staining the walls and the floor. I had to run like hell after that, because Decepticons don't take it too kindly when you blow the brains out of their toys, especially if the particular Decepticon to be that human's master is Laserbeak. He doesn't like having to replace his pets; humans have proven to be more than a hassle to domesticate.

Honestly, I'm a bit baffled I survived my revenge at all.

I peek at the wounds in your legs, hissing in sympathy when I see that one is an angry red.

"That's so totally infected." I pull out a Band-Aid from my kit and use it to cover your cut. Taking out a marker from my breast pocket, I pull the cap off with my teeth and scribble a heart on it. "Sorry, but this is all I can do. I ran out of hydrogen peroxide three days ago."

I fidget a few seconds before looking at the carnage again. There aren't many corpses of children around, only two or three. I clench my hands so tightly that I hurt myself with my own nails. Call me heartless, but I don't like children; they're loud idiots. Yes, I know they aren't exactly aware of what's happening around them, but when an adult tells you to shut it because the monster's coming, you do as you're told. Simple as that. It's the most basic of all survival instincts.

How many times have I gotten my cover blown because I was piggybacking a squealing infant? How many scars does my skin bear because a kid didn't know to hit the dirt and stay that way until I told him it was safe to raise his head? I lost count a long time ago.

Still, my hands also clench because of the deep hate I feel towards Decepticons. They are thieves, terrorists, kidnappers. Using their plasma cannons and metal claws, they grab our tots and take them away. I don't know where to, and I don't want to find out. There are rumours, though, that you hear wherever you go. Some say they're being sold as exotic pets, others moan they're used as grease to keep the construction machinery smooth. There is a merged version that says the cute ones get sold and the plain ones end up as oil.

I think they're being raised away from us so that they grow up believing being slaves is normal.

"Sad, isn't it," I point at a little girl's body. She has blond hair.

Carly, Annabelle, Maggie…

After that, I just clean your wounds. The strength to speak seems to have left me. It happens when I reminisce too much about the things I can never get back. Life on Earth will never be the same, and we're the only ones to blame. A hidden part of me still hasn't lost hope, oddly enough, and that's what puzzles me the most. Somewhere in my psyche, between and behind and below the many twists and turns of my mind, a part of me still believes that the Autobots will come back to save us, be it now or in thirty years. They aren't the kind of guys who'd leave their friends hanging to dry. I've never told anyone my secret hope, but I know I'm not the only dreamer. Having our children abducted and loved ones murdered would have killed us all a long time ago if we didn't believe there's still a chance to be victorious.

"There was a boy, once upon a time," I suddenly blurt, "who wanted an exciting life. He got his wish, and now regrets it."

I let out a shaky breath and check my watch, rubbing some dirt off its cracked glass. A quarter to seven. Too late or too early, depending on how you look at it. Slowly, I start to gather the unused swabs and put them into the first aid kit again. It's not like I have to go someplace else, but the few remaining men of my unit will be worried if I don't show up soon. I've been out doing recon for a few hours now.

"Moral: never despise your normal life," I murmur. Closing the kit, I look at you and smile gloomily. "Gotta get going, now."

You lay there, a precarious balance between chaos and some semblance of peace jarring your expression. The dread and wrath of a tortured person are in your eyes, making them seem older and wearier than they really are. You look cold, detached and cynical towards the world. Like everything you had was snatched out of your reach and destroyed while you begged to _please_ be allowed to get it back. Pained gladness jabs my chest. I'm glad it's over for you, but I won't let the rest of humanity join you any time soon.

"We'll be okay. You'll see."

I lean forwards and close your eyes, whispering a small prayer for your soul before walking away.


End file.
